" "Be it so!" rejoined Sir Rowland, with concentrated fury; "but before we do part, I am resolved to know the name of your pretended husband!" "Torture shall not wrest it from me," answered his sister, firmly. Her complexion was wan and faded, except where it was tinged by a slight hectic flush, that made the want of colour more palpable; her eyes were large and black, but heavy and lustreless; her cheeks sunken; her frame emaciated; her dark hair thickly scattered with gray. But what did the occupant of the box care? The laugh was always with the dead: they were out of the muddle. “Never—but, by Jove, you had a narrow escape,” Ennison exclaimed. He reached out a hand gropingly, sagged, and toppled out of the chair to the floor, where he lay very still. Not very long, if you want to get well. “Sit down,” he said, and perused—“perused” is the word for it—for some moments. From me. I’m sick of this town and I can’t wait to get out. .
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